


Christmas Fairies

by chooken



Category: Westlife
Genre: Breaking and Entering, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Drunkenness, Fairies, M/M, Reindeer, Santa Claus - Freeform, ShMark, Snowmen, Stairs, Stupidity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:24:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3093455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chooken/pseuds/chooken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shane is drunk.  Mark doesn't believe in Santa Claus.</p><p>I wrote this for a Christmas challenge probably 8 years ago.  I can't remember which one, but it still makes me giggle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Fairies

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…

Well… sort of.

*

“That was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Uh…. Huh…” Shane slurred, leaning against the banister and giggling as Mark tried to undo his coat. His head felt all dizzy, and his feet didn’t want to move the way he wanted them to. Mark smiled at him, and Shane giggled again.

“You’re drunk.”

“M’not.”

“Yes you are. You’ve had about nine glasses of wine.”

“Nah,” Shane argued, trying to justify the way his arms seemed too big to fit through his coat sleeves. He squinted, trying make Mark’s face come into focus so he could argue his own sobriety. You couldn’t argue with someone who kept blurring so obstinately. “Just… Christmas spirit.”

“You’re drunk on Christmas spirit?”

“Um… yep.” Shane nodded. “Except… without the drunk part. Part. Party. We were at a party,” he sang, then grinned, waiting for the usual teenage girls to burst out of nowhere and clear the way for their overexcited mums.

“That’s right. Kian’s party.”

“The mums are a bit scary.”

“What, Kian’s mum?” Mark asked, looking confused. Or Shane thought it was confused. Why wouldn’t the guy just be nice to him and come into focus like a good boyfriend? Suddenly he was cold, and he looked down to see his coat pooled around his feet.

“I like Kian’s mum.”

“I thought you just said she was scary?”

“Mmm… no. You don’t listen to me at all!” Shane pouted. Often when he pouted Mark would do things, like kiss him or give him hugs. But this time Mark just smiled and laughed. It made Shane feel sad.

“I do listen to you babe.” Mark replied. “It’s just sometimes I’m not sure you listen to yourself. Come on.” He started tugging on Shane’s wrist. Shane didn’t like this, and pulled back.

“No! You’re horrible. I don’t like you.”

“Well I love you,” Mark countered, pulling Shane into a hug. Shane supposed this part was alright – he did like hugs after all. Maybe his pout was delayed reaction or something? He pouted again, giggling at the way it felt on his face.

“I love you too, Snowman.”

Mark paused, still holding Shane. “Snowman?”

“I like Snowmans.”

“And how am I one?”

“I like you.” Shane explained, still sure that either Mark wasn’t paying attention or had gone entirely soft in the head. And he was apparently the drunk one. Hah! Mark needed to look in the mirror.

“Alright, Shane.”

“Look in the mirror.”

“Er… alright Shane.” Mark replied. “I’ll do that in the morning.” Shane was released for a moment, until Mark grabbed him again from behind. “Come on. Up the stairs.”

“My coat’s on the floor.”

“We’ll get it in the morning.”

“Santa might trip over it. What if he hits his head, and then he can’t deliver presents to everyone? What if he gets amnesia and forgets he’s Santa?”

“What if he sues us for damages?”

“He wouldn’t do that.” Shane replied promptly. “He’s Santa.”

“Fair enough.” Mark nudged him from behind. “Come on, up the stairs. I’m sure if Santa did exist, he’d have his glasses on and would think to step over the coat.”

Shane paused, a feeling of absolute horror sinking in, and a distinct suspicion that he’d been lied to. How could he have been so wrong about Mark? Turning in Mark’s arms with a clumsiness almost certainly created by dread and not by his nine glasses of wine, he faced his lover. Then he said slowly, fearfully:

“You. Don’t. Believe. In. Santa?”

Mark snorted, grabbing his arm and beginning to push him back up the stairs. “Cute.”

“No!” Shane protested, pushing him away. “No! You lied to me!”

“About what, Shaney?” Mark sighed.

“You don’t believe in Santa!”

“I never said I did.”

“You never said you didn’t!” Shane felt tears build behind his eyes at the complete atrocity of it all. “How can you not believe in Santa?!”

Mark looked at him for a moment, standing at the bottom of the stairs while Shane swayed with shock, leaning against the banister halfway up. “Shaney, I’m sorry to tell you this, but your parents put the presents under the tree, and they eat the mince pies.”

“I know that!” Shane griped. And he did. Of course. There were never any presents from Santa… exactly. But that didn’t change the fact of his existence. How much of an insult would it be to someone to be told they didn’t exist? Maybe Santa would drop down dead, like the fairies in Peter Pan when someone didn’t believe in them. “You’re going to kill Santa!"

“I’m sure I’m not.” Mark replied softly, moving up the stairs again and putting a hand on Shane’s arm. Shane tried to shake it off, but it made him feel like falling down the stairs, so he grudgingly allowed it.

“You are! He’s a Christmas fairy!”

“Babe, the only Christmas fairies here are me and you.” Mark snorted, obviously proud of himself for making a joke. Shane scowled.

“You don’t understand.”

“Shane, it’s too late for this,” Mark sighed, starting to sound angry. “I’m tired, and you’re drunk. It’s Christmas tomorrow, and if you’re going to have me up at some godforsaken hour opening presents, I’d really like to get some sleep!”

“You go do that.” Shane sat down, leaning against the wall halfway up the staircase. “I’m going to stay here and wait for Santa. Then you’ll see who's right.”

Mark stared at him for a long time. Shane could feel eyes on him, even as he stared defiantly at his own lap. Then there was a sigh, and feet stepped over his legs, continuing up the stairs. “Goodnight Shane.” Mark said. “Please don’t fall down the stairs.”

 

*

 

It was late at night when Mark was woken up. He couldn’t have said what had woken him, but here he was, awake. Shivering slightly in the cold house, he reached across the bed for something to snuggle up to, his hand starting when it met nothing but air. He looked across the bed, wondering where Shane was.

His eyes fell upon the photo on the nightstand. Shane and Santa – a store Santa, one of his ‘helpers’, apparently – smiling together in front of a cardboard backdrop with glittery reindeer and elves on it. Not a childhood photo or anything – one that had been taken last week at the shops. Of course, Shane must still be downstairs, waiting for his hero.

Resolved to the fact that he wouldn’t sleep for worrying, Mark sat up in bed, reaching for his nightgown. He glanced at his watch. It was very early in the morning. Shane would probably be asleep now, sitting on the stairs where Mark had left him.

He was about to head down the stairs when there was a thud.

It was an ominous thud. A thud that said “I’ve just tripped on the stairs, fallen, and hurt myself”. Hurrying now, Mark strode down the hall, looking down over the railing to the room below. But there was no-one there. No Shane, sprawled unnaturally in a mess at the foot of the stairs. In fact, the room was dark and quiet. Letting out the breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding, Mark staggered sleepily down the stairs, kicking aside the coat that was still bundled at the bottom.

The next room was quiet too, and the next. There was a noise. Mark craned his neck, looking into the living room, wondering what Shane was up to.

But there was no-one there, either. No-one… wait. Another noise. A snore.

Wondering how Shane had gone from moving around the loungeroom to snoring on the couch was much too hard at this early hour, so he simply put it down to the house settling. Their house did sometimes make some funny noises at night.

But here was Shane, sleeping and looking like an angel in front of the dead fireplace, a blanket all tucked up around his chin. The lights were off on the Christmas tree, but Mark could see presents tucked under there, and a couple of tags attached to them, with his name on them. A half-eaten plate of mince pies sat on the mantelpiece, along with a small thank-you note. He smiled. Shane had been a busy bee, hadn’t he? All in the interests of trying to make Mark believe in Santa.

Mark sat down, stroking the hair back from Shane’s forehead and leaning forward to kiss the skin that was revealed. It wasn’t that he actively disbelieved in Santa – he was hardly going to picket store Santas, or go to primary schools delivering speeches on the unlikelihood of a flying reindeer – he was just too old for this sort of thing. He’d grown out of it when he was about seven, coming to the realisation that while Santa was a nice idea, and a good way to keep some magic and hope in the hearts of children, he was hardly a tangible, actual being.

There was another creak, and Mark stiffened, sure that that one hadn’t been the house. For a moment, all he could do was freeze and wonder if he should throw himself over Shane, protect his lover’s body from whatever chainsaw wielding maniac had snuck into their house.

There was another creak.

“What’s going on?” Shane muttered, stirring. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, then froze himself, at the sound of another creak. “Santa,” he whispered, eyes flying open as he stared up at Mark, drunkenness and confusion still present in his eyes. He begun to struggle under Mark. “No, let me go!” He cried, far too loud for Mark’s liking. The creaking was in the next room, and Mark heard definite footsteps. “It’s Santa!”

“Shane, no.” Mark whispered, going to put a hand over Shane’s mouth. But it was too late. Shane was twisting away and standing, drunkenness still obvious in his movements, his mind not clear enough to understand that this couldn’t possibly be Santa. That this was probably some prowler, or at best an escaped mental patient.

But Shane was already gone.

Mark raced after him, snatching up a fire poker along the way, not willing to let Shane be stabbed to death without a fight. But as he grabbed Shane’s arm, the poker held high, only silence and emptiness greeted him. A perfectly normal, empty hallway.

“Where’s Santa?” Shane whispered. Then he blinked, and his eyes cleared a little. “Oh Jesus,” he murmured. “There’s someone in the house.”

There was another creak, this one in the room they’d just left.

They both turned back to look, and this time Mark spotted it. A trail of sooty boot-prints, very faint, leading into this very room. He pointed, and they both stared.

“Police.” Shane murmured.

“My mobile’s upstairs,” Mark replied under his breath, nudging Shane toward the stairs. “Go. I’m right behind you.”

Trying to be as quiet as they could, they tiptoed quickly up the stairs and padded down the hallway, Mark grateful for their bare feet. They shut the bedroom door behind themselves, both panting, staring wide-eyed at each other, Mark’s heart hammering in his throat. He really wished, now, they’d he’d had a lock put on this door, and not dismissed it as a fire hazard. But it was too late to think of that now.

Mark snatched up his phone, envious of Shane’s easy wriggle under the bed, and began to dial, but the sound of the ringing was cut off by a sudden, loud thundering on the roof.

“What’s that?” Shane whispered. Mark stared back at the face peering out from under the bed, completely at a loss, the phone squawking tinnily in his hand.

The thundering died away, and suddenly there was the crisp, clear chime of bells.

Sleigh bells.

It was quiet, what they heard next, but never so quiet as to be mistakeable, and long after Mark would hear a bad approximation of it, and look at Shane. Shane would look back, and give a secretive smile.

Faintly, on the wind, there came a voice.

“Ho ho ho.” It said. “Merry Christmas to all… and to all a good night.”


End file.
